


meditations upon farewell

by remi_wolf



Series: the superstitions, nay, the religion of internet league blaseball [1]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Character Study, Freeform, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, No Dialogue, Superstition, Temporary Character Death, it's a weird fic, it's weird - Freeform, no narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26907361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remi_wolf/pseuds/remi_wolf
Summary: blaseball is, by all accounts, a strange game. it only makes sense that the superstitions must be equally as strange in order to account for it. thus comes the most important superstition. Do Not Say Goodbye. Do Not Utter The Word "Goodbye." only bad things happen when someone utters that forbidden word.a meditation upon how such a tradition was formed and who abides by it and what happens to those that spit in the face of superstition.Whumptober Day 8: Where Did Everybody Go? Prompt: "Don't Say Goodbye."
Series: the superstitions, nay, the religion of internet league blaseball [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104305
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Beguilements and Distractions, Remi's Whumptober Collection for 2020, Whumptober 2020





	meditations upon farewell

Traditions and superstitions are the backbone of many splorts. Some are simple, such as not whistling backstage. Others are larger, more all-encompassing and dictate your lifetime, such as never stepping off the flootball field. There were far more than any one person could ever hope to memorize, even if they were to restrict themselves to one splort rather than all of them. As a result, many splorts teams and fans found one particular superstition and tradition, and latched onto that one, refusing to let go of it.

There was one such tradition in blaseball. One tradition that was held up beyond all others. Everything else could end up as a negotiation, but that one tradition held firm throughout the entirety of the league. 

Don’t say goodbye.

You don’t ever say it. You don’t say it as a joke, you don’t say it at the end of the season, you don’t ever say that one word. Anything else worked. “See you later.” “Au revoir.” “Donadagohvi.” “Till next time.” Anything other than the final goodbye that could seal a person’s fate if you weren’t careful. Yes, naturally, there were times that a player or a fan would slip and it would pass by their lips, onlookers gazing in horror as the individuals froze, unable to decide what to do. 

After all, no one knew how to counter that particular bad luck other than to deal with the sickening uneasiness that followed until the two saw each other again, and they would reunite like they hadn’t seen each other in years or lifetimes. 

The tradition started eleven years ago, at the time the book was opened and Jaylen Hotdogfingers faced the ire of the Rogue Umpires that first time. A reporter had said “goodbye” to Fitzgerald Massey before that thirteenth game, the one in which Massey was incinerated in a show of force that rocked the entire league. Surely it was a coincidence, but people stopped. No more bidding people farewell, no more saying goodbye as though you weren’t seeing them in only a few moments. 

The tradition was well and truly cemented when Don Elliot told Jenna Maldonado “goodbye” before they were up to bat. Upon their incineration, most teams had engraved in their dugouts, above their doorways, “Don’t say goodbye.” If you said goodbye, you cemented someone’s fate to be incinerated. 

As with many traditions, who knew whether it was true or false. Perhaps it was false. Perhaps it was true. People slowly grew more at ease around the farewells, creating more loopholes and edging closer and closer to the forbidden word, before everything came to a head in Season Seven. With Hotdogfingers rising from the dead, with necromancing possible, once more people felt as though the Umpires didn’t have nearly the power that they once did, that perhaps they were safe. 

Until someone told Dickerson Morse “goodbye” before the fifth day of the season, shortly before the Kansas City Breath Mints went up to bat. Suddenly, the terms of the superstition changed. Suddenly, players had more to worry about than simply the Rogue Umpires. Morse was struck with a stray ball, something that never happened before, and suddenly, the Umpires seemed to take note of him. 

A hush fell throughout the stands. Perhaps they weren’t so safe, after all. Perhaps the superstition was just as important, just as vital to the safety of the players, and the moratorium came into effect once more, until one individual broke it in the most spectacular fashion possible. 

An announcer, unnamed and unfaced and unknown to all but the most unknowable of the managers, on day 31, bid the Tigers a fond farewell, a grand goodbye, before signing off. 

Whether it had been an intentional sabotage or an innocent mistake by a clueless intern, no one knew. The offending party never made their voice heard again, but the damage had been done. Day 32, and after the cursed goodbye had been heard, the Tigers faced the most devastating game in the League’s history, with three players lost between them and Canada’s Moist Talkers. Once again, the importance of such superstitions, and the truth they held to the players and the fans held onto the people populating the league. No farewells. No indication that you would never see a person again.

You will always see a person again. It’s very, very important to remember that you will always see a person again. 

Regardless of feedback, peanuts, reverb, blooddrain, or incinerations, you will see a person again, and therefore a “goodbye” is never necessary. 

The next test of the superstition came with the Garages. Always a team to scoff at the traditions of the league, even despite their history of incinerations and Jaylen Hotdogfingers, if you wanted to hear “goodbye,” you went to the Big Garage. The words came and went easily, flowing like water or notes on an album, with none of the fans or players quite so scared of the tradition as they should have been. Not so long as they were in the Garage.

Season Eight changed that. 

Players shifted and changed all throughout the league. It was a fact of life with feedback weather patterns rising and falling across the country. The Garages, however, never had quite as many trades as other teams did. Sure, they had one or two, but in Season Eight, with the refinanced debt that Jaylen Hotdogfingers bore, several of their players were traded, including Hotdogfingers herself, and while the fans and players tried to spin such actions as a grand “World Tour..."

The Big Garage slowly grew quieter and stiller. People exchanged words less frequently, in fear that it could be seen as a goodbye. The team watched as Theodore Duende quietly engraved the somber reminder of the superstition above the doorways of the locker room and the Big Garage, trying to prevent further team members from leaving.

Perhaps it’s nothing more than a superstition. Perhaps it’s simply coincidence and confirmation bias. 

Or, perhaps, it’s not. 

Regardless, in the end...

Goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully you enjoyed this weird meditation. Originally it was intended to actually follow a character, but as I wrote it, it felt nice to have this weird roaming narrator. Is the narrator the Shelled One? Is it the Monitor? Is it simply some other collective following the game? I don't know! It's up to you! Comments always appreciated! Thanks for reading!


End file.
